


Feminine Wiles

by Joodiff



Series: All Joodiff's Adult WtD Fic [19]
Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, Christmas, Christmas Smut, F/M, Oral Sex, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 07:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8881930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: Grace really, really wants to know what Boyd's bought her for Christmas, and she's prepared to use every trick in the book to get him to tell her...Happy Christmas 2016!Adult content. Over 18s only, please.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GotTea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/gifts), [missduncan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missduncan/gifts), [ScriptionAddict](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriptionAddict/gifts).



**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

* * *

**Feminine Wiles**

by Joodiff

* * *

He’s got that obstinate, determined look about him. Square, bearded chin slightly lifted, mouth set in a hard, straight line. Grace knows that look. Knows it very well indeed. Then, _he’s_ a very, very stubborn man, and _she’s_ known him a long, long time, so it’s hardly surprising that she recognises that look and what it means. Holding position in the living room doorway and thus preventing any chance of him escaping to the hall or beyond, she repeats, “ _Tell_ me.”

“No,” he says again.

“Boyd.”

He stares straight back at her, expressionless and enigmatic. “Grace.”

While it’s true she can usually predict his actions – nothing more than simple psychology combined with an extensive knowledge of each and every one of his many personality quirks – she can’t actually read his mind. It’s infuriating. Extremely so. She studies him carefully, looking for the tiniest sign of… well, anything. The dark gaze that she receives in return is flat and steady, and gives nothing at all away. She’s tried winsome, she’s tried fierce. She’s even tried pouting and sulking. Nothing has worked so far. Even physically stopping him from leaving the damn room isn’t achieving anything. She’s definitely running out of options.

Except…

Except for the obvious, of course. Seduction.

But she isn’t that sort of woman.

Is she?

He’s reasonably affluent as befits his age and station in life, and he’s also unquestionably generous towards those who mean something to him, she knows that. The chances of her receiving a _very_ nice Christmas gift from him this year are exceptionally high. Things between them being the way they are now.

She could wait patiently. She _should_ wait patiently.

It’s only another thirty-six hours or so until Christmas morning, after all.

But…

But she was always the _impatient_ child who searched the entire house high and low throughout the whole of December looking for any sign of gifts and treats, and just because many decades have passed since then…

“Please?” she tries with what she hopes is a winning smile, though the tactic hasn’t worked so far.

Nothing about his indecipherable expression changes. “No.”

Annoying, _insufferable_ man. She glowers at him. “ _Why_ won’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s not Christmas yet and it would spoil the surprise.”

Sometimes it’s very easy to tell that he is… was… a parent. Not that she’d ever be tactless enough to tell him as much. Narrowing her eyes a fraction, Grace considers her limited options. She could give up and wait with good… er… grace. She could try further sulking – he usually breaks eventually under the silent treatment – or she could ignore her deeply-held principles and deploy the strongest remaining weapon at her disposal: feminine wiles.

He’s already eaten, and it’s rather too late in the evening to try the candlelight and red wine route. Besides, Peter Boyd wouldn’t recognise subtle if it walked up to him, held out its hand and introduced itself. No, a much more direct approach is called for. Mind made up, she takes a firm step towards him, putting herself easily with range, and makes a determined grab for the well-defined contours that cause a notable bulge in his expensive suit trousers. “Tell me what you’ve bought me for Christmas, Boyd.”

His eyes widen for a moment, pupils dilating a fraction either from shock or anticipation, and his breath hisses out sharply, but otherwise her bold strategy seems to have very little effect. He shakes his head, still every bit as obstinate. “No.”

She could tighten her grip, which she feels would definitely be counter-productive in the long run, or she could… Yes. A much better plan.

Stroking him through the smooth fabric, Grace doesn’t bother to hide the smug smile that rises as… other things… also begin to rise. Doesn’t matter how damn stubborn he is, he’s still a man, and a man who is powerfully – if somewhat inexplicably – attracted to her. His increasing physical arousal is palpable, pressing into her hand as she continues her deliberate, artful exploration. “Is it jewellery?”

Boyd looks down at her, the height difference between them made more pronounced by their proximity. The intense brown eyes have taken on a feral, foxy look, one that she’s come to know very well in the last few months, but it seems he’s not ready to give in. Not yet. “How many more times? I’m not telling you.”

It probably _is_ jewellery. Maybe. Or not. But if it’s _not_ jewellery, then what could it be? Surely he’s got her something wonderfully extravagant? Hasn’t he? He has if he knows what’s bloody good for him.

Stretching up on tip-toes, she kisses him. Gently at first, barely a light brush of lips, a sensual, teasing promise that she knows will capture his attention. It does. Hands suddenly on her waist, he pulls her in, hungry mouth instantly seeking more from her. It occurs to her – rather too late – that recent history has proved that it’s close to impossible for her to hang onto her own senses while consciously trying to make him lose all track of _his_. Still, if she does her best to look upon that as a fringe benefit rather than as something of a problem…

They’re both breathing heavily when she draws back.

“Still not telling you,” Boyd says, but he sounds huskier than he did. Good.

Grace places her free hand flat on his chest, neat and precise, then gives him an experimental push. Nothing happens. Close on six foot tall and proportionally well-built, he is not an easy man to move against his will. He looks faintly amused by the unproductive attempt, though, which makes her even more determined. She squeezes with the other hand, diverting his attention, and tries pushing again with more force. It’s a dirty trick, but since he’s not renowned for playing fair she thinks it counts as a perfectly valid ploy. It works, too. Boyd takes an automatic step back to keep his balance, and she capitalises on it, pushing him further back into the room. Probably, he’s consciously allowing her to do it, but she ignores the notion.

She says, “If you tell me…”

One quizzical eyebrow lifts in elegant response, but he doesn’t say a single word.

“…then tomorrow night I’ll wear that little black lacy number you’re so fond of,” she finishes, closing in on him again.

Both eyebrows lift at that, and he immediately looks covetous. “Really?”

“Really,” Grace confirms with a promising, sultry smile, not at all surprised at how hard he suddenly is beneath her once-again exploratory hand. It’s impressive really, just how hot the blood can still run at their age. “Well?”

He certainly looks more than tempted, but just as she’s getting ready to bask in her triumph, he shakes his head. “Nice try, Grace. Nice try.”

Well… damn and blast. She scowls, displeased by his wilfulness. “But I want to know!”

“’I want doesn’t…’” he starts to say, a quote she remembers very well from her youth, but seems to think better of finishing it as her scowl increases. “Well, never mind. Look, I’m not going to tell you, Grace, and that’s the end of it.”

God, she loves it when he’s assertive. Sometimes. At least at home. In private. When she’s in the mood.

Any other time she’d –

“Besides,” he continues, his voice dropping a fraction to become a deep, tempting purr, “anticipation is a wonderful thing.”

He’s definitely _not_ talking about Christmas presents. Or, if he is, Grace’s hormones have decided to interpret the words in an entirely different way.

She gives him another shove – using both hands this time – and he obediently collapses backwards into the big comfortable armchair that she likes to curl up in with a glass of wine on quiet solitary evenings. Pretending not to be aware that it’s definitely an act of amused compliance on his part, Grace pounces. It’s big enough for two, that plush, old-fashioned chair, assuming the two concerned share a level of intimacy that allows for tangled limbs and extremely close physical contact. Dragging her fingers through his hair – short and dense – she kisses him roughly. Urgently. Hotly. Lips and tongues and teeth. Hands, not just hers, moving quickly over familiar curves and contours.

They’re both breathing heavily when they disengage.

“Tell me, Peter,” she demands once more, but she knows he won’t. It doesn’t matter.

“No,” he says, and bites her neck hard enough to make her yelp – but in pleasure, not in pain.

She kisses him again, just as fiercely, if not more so. He’s as hard as iron under her palm, and she can feel the heat of him radiating through the straining fabric of his trousers. Raw, exciting masculinity. His zip surrenders to her far more easily than its owner’s ever likely to. Drawing him out of his trousers with care – nothing being more likely to put paid to her fun than the unexpected sharp scrape of small metal teeth against sensitive male anatomy – she forsakes his mouth to breathe a hot whisper into his ear. “But I want to know.”

In return Boyd gives her a grin. The ferocious, crooked grin that comes with teeth. The one that never fails to do interesting things to her, especially when combined with the wicked, greedy glint he’s currently got in his eye. There are times when Grace is very glad she didn’t know him as much younger man. The endless mischief he would have led her into… it really doesn’t bear thinking about. She gives him a deliberate squeeze in retaliation, and the answering throb of arousal almost makes her forget the reasons why she’s… doing what she’s doing. It’s tempting to abandon any thoughts of Christmas in general and Christmas presents in particular, wriggle her way out of her underwear and simply –

“Persuade me,” he challenges, even huskier now.

Common sense tells Grace he has no intention of surrendering his secret, whatever she does. But Boyd’s not the only one who’s thoroughly turned on and doubtless enduring a deluge of increasingly wanton thoughts. The maddeningly pleasant ache of real need has hold of her now, and that’s… not a good thing. Not when she’s supposed to be the one with all the power.

He tilts his head a fraction to the side.

Common sense, she decides, can go screw itself.

“Fuck…” Boyd rasps, just a few moments later. Busy as she is, she decides to take it as a compliment. His hips strain, his hands fall heavily onto her shoulders, and even without so much as a single glance upwards she knows his head has snapped back, exposing his throat. Smirking inwardly, Grace goes to work on him in earnest, alternating heavy suction with a lighter but more concentrated teasing using her lips and tongue. He moans, he swears, and he fidgets, seemingly caught somewhere between agony and ecstasy. What he _doesn’t_ do is tell her stop.

Taking a break to catch her breath, she asks, “What have you bought me?”

The choked noise Boyd makes in response is guttural, desperate. It’s followed by, “Jesus, Grace…”

“I can do this all night,” she smugly informs him, which is a long way from the truth, but suits her purposes. “I can take you right to the edge, and then…” She doesn’t need to finish the sentence. His answering groan tells her he’s got the message. Loud and clear. To prevent any misunderstandings, however, she adds, “And I can do it _over_ and _over_ again.”

Just the threat is enough. He breaks instantly. “All right, all _right_ , for fuck’s sake…”

“Well?” she says expectantly, lazily pumping his cock with one hand to keep him focused on what’s important. And just because she thoroughly enjoys it.

“I’ll tell you,” he grinds out with the kind of inimical glare that’s been known to terrify the most nefarious of hardened criminals, “but not until…”

Grace makes a production out of sighing and shaking her head. “Really? _So_ predictable, Boyd.”

He growls at her then, growls and shifts position with a speed and strength that sends a delightful shiver down the entire length of her spine. He’s heavy and he’s powerful, and she couldn’t stop him if she wanted to.

She most definitely _doesn’t_ want to.

She wants him between her thighs, wants him deep inside her. Wants to writhe and pant and shudder as he pounds her hard enough to rock the damned chair on its stubby little legs. She wants to be part of him, wants _him_ to be part of _her_. Wants to feel him, taste him, smell him. It’s fierce and primitive, all of it, a long, long way from the gentle, protracted love-making that belongs to their moonlit bedroom hours. He’s looming above her, eyes blazing, and as she assists him by squirming free of the last irritating garments getting in their way, she demands, “Do it.”

He kisses her, the combined rasp of evening stubble and his short goatee beard rougher and more stimulating than before, his tongue in her mouth mimicking the invasion of his fingers lower down her body. She welcomes both intrusions, each a thrilling promise in its own way. Lust and love, twisted together in urgent heat, no beginning, no ending. Boyd shifts his hips without breaking the kiss even for a moment, and she feels the brief fumble between them that precedes another, much larger invasion. He’s big, but her body’s slick with need and she takes him, every inch of him, with ease.

He pulls out of the kiss and stares down at her, a wild-hearted creature she loves more than any other, and as he makes the first long, deep thrust, he rasps, “I lied.”

Grace tightens her grip on his shoulders, her nails biting hard through the thin material of his half-open shirt, but it’s not a punishment. Both serene and not, she replies, “I know.”

There’s a lot of movement and very little finesse. It’s not the way they usually are together, but it works. Better than she expects, in fact, because in very little time it’s not just Boyd who’s panting and sweating and mumbling a crazy litany of words that encourage, goad, and torment. Her body arches, stretching out for the release that’s close, but not yet quite in reach, and he picks up her rhythm and improvises on it, sending further tremors through her thighs as they flex and the muscles start to go into spasm.

He comes first, letting go with a choked-off roar that lasts through the jerking of his hips that becomes moments of frozen immobility. Grace allows it, but for a few seconds only, too close to her own release to risk losing momentum. Another bite of her nails and he’s moving again, less desperate, but quick enough, deep enough to get her there before inertia drags her away from the prize. She goes over the edge in a glorious storm of intense sensation, everything else lost to her as learns once again exactly what the French really mean by _la petite mort_.

It takes a minute, maybe more, before she really starts to become aware of her surroundings again in anything more than a distant, abstract way. Hot breath against her neck; a hand on her breast. The bony point of his hip digging into her thigh. The hot dampness of her blouse. The carriage clock on the mantelpiece ticking; the distant sound of a siren somewhere out in the night. Not yet able to speak, she nudges her motionless partner. A familiar signal for him to move, and after a moment he does. Slow and sluggish, their bodies peeling apart and naturally finding their own space. As awareness really starts to take hold, Grace decides he’s probably a lot less comfortable than she is, half propped as he is against the armchair, half kneeling on the boldly-patterned rug that she bought in Camden Market at some unremembered point in the late ‘seventies.

Languid and relaxed, she tries a quiet, “Peter…?”

Boyd makes an unintelligible noise in return, but eventually lifts his head to look at her and mumble, “Mm…?”

It’s entirely predictable, of course, but she doesn’t care a jot as she asks, “What have you got me for Christmas…?”

_\- the end -_

 

 


End file.
